For What It's Worth
by Battlefield Angel
Summary: The intrepid adventurer, Meg Giry, descends into the underground of the Opera House, searching for her best friend. What she finds is something different. Not my usual fare, so be patient.
1. For What It's Worth

Ok, usually I am a die-hard EC shipper, but I had a weird little vision in my head and a regret softly spoken in my own voice. Strange that I've been called Meg all my life (my name really is Megan, go figure). I can just see little Giry, with hair more red than gold, a faint smattering of freckles and bright blue eyes, looking at someone who has had his heart completely broken and solemnly offering what little comfort she could. Meg's thoughts are in italics, and spoken words in the standard quotation marks. Please read and review for me please. Like all writers, I'm a review whore.

Little Meg had had to steel herself, brave the unknown darkness. She had to find Christine Daae. The Vicomte would only anger the Phantom further, but Meg knew, she knew, that the Phantom wouldn't harm Christine. Now all Meg had to do was go by the secret roads, far from the storming mob, to come to the underground house.

There was just one problem. She was utterly and totally terrified of the underground. She could feel it- the weight of the Opera- closing in about her like some massive stone set upon a frail box of card-board. The fear was strangling, but she resolutely kept on; one foot in front of the other, sharp blue eyes looking for pitfalls and traps. She thanked whatever gods there be for her costume change from the frothy red Gypsy costume to the white blouse and brown trousers which mirrored that of Don Juan's in the last act. She was able to move without the constrictions of skirts and that thrice-damned corset!

She stopped, took a series of deep, calming breaths, trying to keep the dizzying sensation of weight at bay. _I have to go on. No matter, what. Christine needs me. Imagine anything. A wind on your cheek, the stars over head. Look, Meg, there's Orion! Your favorite. And the Lyre. I imagine if the Phantom has a favorite constellation, that one would be it. The sunset, all streaks of red and gold and deep plummy purple fading to satiny deep blue over in the east. You could see it all from the top of the Opera. They said it was the tallest modern building in the world_.

Meg, with her strange claustrophobia, could believe that. She went often to the roof of the Opera, just as Christine went to the chapel. They each had their own little spot. Or had. Until the chandelier had come crashing down, bringing Meg's world down with it. How could something so beautiful be so destructive? Or was it the other way around? Meg wasn't sure of the answer, but the thoughts came, unbidden, like ribbons trailed about for kittens to snatch at. And then, there it was. The lake. That immeasurable glassy surface, it looked as if someone had laid a mirror on the floor. If it weren't for the faint, hazy vapor that hung over it, she could almost imagine walking across it. But it was an illusion, like much in the world of darkness. The darkness didn't bother her, she realized. She only had a very little lantern, nothing like what the stagehands and gendarmes carried. They had flaming torches, along with whatever makeshift weapons they could improvise. All Meg had was a little lantern, and her wits. The latter of which seemed to have gone begging.

_What could I have been thinking!_ She moaned to herself, _Christine has the Vicomte and all those policemen to rescue her! And what if she doesn't want to be rescued? Have you ever thought of that, you fool of a Meg Giry? With the mask on, he's quite handsome. And that voice! _She stopped and shook her head, like a cat that had gotten water in its ear.

_And the worst part is that you're jealous. You're jealous of the attention that Christine has gotten. Not to mention that you're absolutely disgusted with her inability to end this on her own terms. It's either the Vicomte's way, or the Phantom's. Add the fact that you think the Phantom is ever so much more interesting, well then. If only you had some sort of hidden genius! They'd all be quaking in their cravats at you. Meg Giry, Prima Ballerina de l'Opera!_

Perfect, save for the stupid red hair rather than the honeyed locks of her mother's youth. She would have been an absolute lioness. The lion may be the king of beasts, but his lady always ruled the pride. Female cats always were the ones in charge. Meg grinned as she began to move through the knee-deep water. She could see her mother running all of France with the same absolute control that she ran the ballet.

But she noted the change in her surroundings. There were enormous high relief heads about her, ancient, some crumbling, others had been painstakingly repaired. _They must be very old. They look Roman_. She thought, pausing to look at them in wonder. Meg blessed the fact that her mother had encouraged her to read and Meg had often snuck into the Opera's library. With every spare penny she earned, she would dash off to find some new volume. After she'd first performed in Aida, she'd fallen in love with all things Egyptian. Proudly, she could even read some of the writing that Monsieur Champollion had first translated. _If you can't be a ballerina, you could always serve as an assistant to an archaeological expedition_, Meg surmised. _All you have to do is learn how to be an artist. Or perhaps a detective, like that American author wrote about. Poe's detective was even French! You'd make a marvelous detective, you're an inveterate busybody. _

Suddenly, she felt better, as if she were an adventuress in some ancient lost temple. A temple to music. She went on and further on, wading up to the knee. Another song playing in her head. She _was_ too educated. No wonder she was ignored in favor of her beautiful best friend. Once or twice she heard what seemed to be echoes from the theatre. But they were gone soon enough, auditory wraiths in this odd world of half-light. But she pressed on, till it began to be lighter and lighter, and she suddenly realized that she did not need her lantern. Candles, there were candles everywhere. Some lit, some not. She followed the trail of light to a grotto, a portcullis rose, to accommodate... whom? Certainly not the Phantom. How on earth was anyone supposed to get about in this confounded maze without freezing off at the knees?

"Unless he has a boat, you fool!" She said aloud, her voice echoing faintly. She nearly jumped at it, but continued on. She reached dry rock and had never felt so relieved to be away from the water. It had not been deep; or very cold… but she had been in it for what had seemed forever.

It was the music box which drew her. She recognized the tune, that tinkling sound, like the patter of raindrops on the lead roof of the Opera. And she'd ever been lulled by the rain. It made her feel safe, that little sound, and looking out a rain-washed window was like staring at one of those paintings done by that new school- the Impressionists.

Meg's thoughts, wandering like scattered stars, pulled to attention when she heard the voice. So soft and sad, she suddenly understood why Christine had thought him an angel.

"Masquerade, paper faces on parade. Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you…" Such a sad voice sang the words, as if they meant so much more than what they actually said. Meg crept quietly to the portal. A bed, shaped like a swan dominated this small cavern. He sat at the foot of it, head bowed over the music box, his hands clenched together over something.

_He wrote them. You've heard those words for how many years at the Bal Masque? Why did you never really listen to them? You listen to everything, Meg Giry. Some detective you are. He has to have read Poe. He came as the Red Death, like from that story. The skeleton at the feast. He's really quite handsome. Shame about the other side of his face. No wonder he loved Christine. She was everything that was beautiful and good. But she's not here! Why isn't she here?_

He made a movement, relaxing his hand and then inhaling, as if to draw courage from whatever it was he held. _He must think I'm the gendarmes_. But Meg just simply stood there, a hand bracing herself on the doorjamb.

"She's gone." The words were quiet, although not a whisper. "She's gone, I sent her away," He repeated, then looked up, "You're the Giry brat. Madame's daughter."

Meg took a step back, surprised that he knew who she was. Then with a shake of red-gold hair, she thought, _Of course he knows who you are. Till six months ago, you and Christine were nearly inseparable_. She tilted her head and looked at him. He seemed so much smaller now, with tear-streaks running down his face. She nodded, "Yes, I'm Meg."

"The clever one. The one who actually knew what was a trick of the Opera Ghost and not some mere ballet rat's foolishness." He smiled a little at the thought, but it was a faraway smile. She stared at him, speechless. Then he broke the spell, "You don't much resemble your mother."

"No. I look like my father- red-headed and homely." Somehow, that unthinking comment of his had opened a draught of bitterness that she hadn't even realized was there. She blushed, her accursed freckles standing out even more as another thought crossed her mind, "You think I'm clever?"

He stood and looked down at the music box, which played its mournful, cheerful tune. How the melody could be both at once confounded the girl, but she knew with unerring knowledge that it was. Suddenly, he loomed over her, and she swallowed convulsively. He was once again the Phantom, frightening, all-encompassing in his power.

"Tell me, clever Meg Giry, why is it that the harder I reach for happiness, the further away it flies? Tell me, why must I never know what it is to be loved? Why must I always be cast away- like a toy that no longer amuses- ever alone, ever unwanted?" His voice changed again, back to that quiet, despairing, "No matter how much I love, it will never be returned… She kissed me. She kissed me and I knew. I knew she'd never love me. Not as I love her. Not as I needed her to love me. So I sent her away." He sounded nothing so much like a lost little boy, for all his height, "And now, I'll never know what it is to be happy. I just didn't want to be lonely anymore. Why couldn't she love me? _Why_?" And now the tears came again, fresh and bitter, and he wiped them away with an angry fist.

Meg glanced at the floor, then walked to where he stood, still as a statue in his grief. She curled her hand into a fist, nails biting into the flesh of her palm a moment, before unfurling like a white flag and placing it gently on his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the contact. He turned to face her and she saw that the left side of his face was so austere, and so beautiful; he was gazing at her with cat-green eyes. _Like the peridots Mother sometimes wears_, Meg thought irreverently. With her left hand, she reached out, offering the mask.

"For what it's worth… I'm sorry." Her voice was soft, like the mist you so often find in mountain valleys. She didn't know what else to say. There was so much anger, so much grief. It was too much for one man. Meg moved slowly, wiping away the ghost of a tear from his face. Then she said the only thing she could think, "Come, I expect Mother is waiting for you." And, summoning up all her courage, she took his hand.

There it is. Quite a departure from my usual fare, but sometimes that sort of thing helps. Thanks for reading! K.S.


	2. Neither Persephone nor Eurydice

I had planned this as a one-shot, but since those who reviewed were so nice, I think I'll continue. But if you just want the one-shot, it's on Aria as such. My name there is WalkingbymyWildLone. Thanks, K.S.

_**Neither Persephone nor Eurydice**_

She picked up the mask and held it out to him. "Come, I expect Mother is waiting for you."

He nodded and resumed the mask, then wrapped a cloak about him. "And we mustn't disappoint Mother."

A hesitant smile crossed her face as she took his hand firmly in her own small one. She led him through the tunnels, not really knowing why, until he stopped her. "Clever Meg, you'd have to be very clever indeed to miss all my traps." He moved in front of her, "Step where I step. I don't want your mother accusing me of harming her daughter. Come now. And step lightly."

Meg nodded, and followed, not saying a word. Every so often the Phantom would stop and listen; as if he could hear things she could not. All Meg could hear were her own footfalls; his were silent as a cat's and so she took especial care to remain silent. Not even a breath was to be heard in that eerie world of darkness. She felt like Persephone, returning to the world of the living, yet it was Hades (or was he Orpheus?) who was leading her to safety.

_"No, that's dangerous, Mistress Meg. Don't go imagining yourself as the heroine of this story. And neither Persephone nor Eurydice would do for her- those were both so much better suited to Christine. Classical myth never served a girl or nymph or goddess who seemed to be only there to incite the confidences of the heroine. Hebe, there we go. The daughter of Zeus and Hera, knocked out of her riveting role as cupbearer to the gods because there was a mortal boy who was better at it than she."_ Meg snorted a small scoffing laugh, quickly swallowed up by the darkness. But the Phantom heard.

"What?" Even that single word was so well-modulated, so beautiful, that Meg stopped dead in her tracks. He was so very tall!

"Nothing. I'm just… You wouldn't believe it anyway."

"Believe what, pray tell?" His eyes gleamed in the little light that they had. They'd moved out from the Opera cellars to a thin tunnel, which smelled faintly of what could only be politely termed as 'marsh gas.'

"Tonight has had a very mythic quality to it, don't you think? But now… It's a little ridiculous. I'm no Persephone or Eurydice…. I'm more of a Hebe if you follow my meaning. And yet the strange hero is leading me out of the underworld to return me safe to my mother! Whatever gods came up with this game- they've a twisted sense of humor."

"A game? You've seen this all as a game? Or perhaps you would prefer to see it as a morality play? Prince Charming rescues his beloved, while the monster who had spirited her away is left alone and unwanted… It says a great deal, doesn't it? That the beautiful are rewarded with love and happiness while the poor beast can never be released from the spell because the girl he loves is in love with someone else!" The tears were threatening again, and he seemed to crumple up, falling to his knees, weeping.

Meg bit her lip, indecisive, then acted as instinct demanded. She knelt before him and guided him so that his head rested on her shoulder as he sobbed.

"I loved her so. I love her still." He repeated over and over, his voice gradually softening as he buried his face in the white lawn of her blouse. Meg stroked his hair with one hand, the other gripping his shirt in some vain attempt to lessen the shaking of his shoulders. She looked out into the darkness, wondering just what had been done to this man that the rejection of a seventeen year old girl could drive him to the things that he had done this night. She remembered a phrase that she had read somewhere- "_A fallen colossus is somehow more pitiable than a felled weakling._" How strange that she should find it to be so very true!

"Hush now. Everything will turn out all right in the end. But I think we'd best hurry and get to the street. I… I don't like being underground. It… bothers me." She spoke in as calm a voice as she could, but in fact, the choking, mind-numbing panic was beginning to take hold, and she knew that if they were not out soon, she'd succumb- and either start screaming till she passed out, or hyperventilate and faint immediately.

Again, that lightning change in him. He was up and standing in a moment, the black of his cloak swirling like a thunderhead. She looked up at his sudden movement and the dizziness threatened. Her head reeled and poor Meg felt the unpleasantly familiar feeling of weight and claustrophobia pressing in; washing over her like heavy ocean swells, swamping her dwindling composure and blotting out consciousness.

And then- there was a movement in her failing vision- swooping over her, enveloping her. Afterwards, there was only the darkness, and the warmth. _So this is what it is like, _she mused. _And yet those stupid ninnies go on and on about it. Still… it is quite nice… _Her head lay against a warm, hard surface that moved erratically- and yet there was a cadence to that beat. Or a beat to the cadence? Whichever it was, even his heartbeat played some strange music all its own. How strange! _He even smells nice, which is more than can be said for the sweaty stagehands or even the managers who masked their perspiration with clouds of perfume as eye-watering as that of Carlotta. What mass of contradictions he is! So compelling- so very powerful and yet so very fragile. How in the world did I get mixed up in all this! This was supposed to be Christine's. And now I am off on an adventure. _

"I'd love to have an adventure," she mumbled into his waistcoat. He smiled, setting her down only long enough to open the hidden door which would lead them to the world above. To Paris. He lifted her pliant figure and wondered, momentarily, at how different the human body could be. Christine was rather taller than Meg, whose form might be charitably referred to as compact. What a strange race- Woman. Even the ones who seemed innocent and lovely showed that there was no hope for someone who did not possess the same attractiveness. And yet, Little Meg seemed to have remained unaffected by the romances that consumed the lives of her companions. Even as he had been falling further and further into madness, he envied his Angel's best friend in her ability to lose herself and all the world with her into those books she filched from the Opera's library. He'd heard her mother complaining about the volumes on Egypt.

"You are a ballerina, Meg Giry! You should be practicing. This… this obsession with a dead past in a heathen country will not make you prima ballerina in two years time!" Oh, Madame had been furious, but there was something more, as if Meg could have been something quite different- quite respected, if only she'd been born a boy.

And now, thanks to him, she no longer had any livelihood. There was the Comedie Francaise, of course, but there was no way that that theatre, small as it was, could take on the entire corps de ballet of the Opera Populaire. It was very late, and he had no idea as to what he ought to do now. He'd gotten the chit this far, best to wake her and find out where her mother would be.

"Meg. Wake up, Little Meg. Come now, you can't sleep forever." He lowered her to the cobblestones and shook her a moment. Wide blue eyes opened, and her tangled hair looked the same color as the flames engulfing the Opera behind them. "Your face looks like the _tricolour,_ ma petite." He smiled, holding out a hand to her, "Come, we must find your mother, and I cannot very well go up to Firmin and Andre and ask her whereabouts."  
"You're right, you're a wanted man. I suppose I look an absolute fright, my stupid hair… Stay here, then. I'll try to find Mother." She watched as he melted into the shadows, then turned towards the Opera, taking a deep breathe and wondering how she was ever going to explain this all to her mother. This strange interlude may be over, but he would be here when she came back for him. And from there, who knows what adventures await?

A/N

There will be more of this, as well as my other fic, All Through the Night. Life had gotten in the way of Phantom and I'm desperately trying to balance both right now.

The quote mentioned was from Elizabeth Peters' first _Amelia Peabody_ novel: _Crocodile on the Sandbank_. If you're anywhere where you can get your hands on a copy, do so! It's a fantastic book, and I credit it with giving my Meg her idea for wanting to become an archaeologist. Anywho, thanks for reading. Please review! (It makes my day and gives me a sense of accomplishment just as tangible as the Bachelor of Arts sitting in my mother's china cabinet).


	3. Devious

_**Devious**_

Meg rounded about to the front of the now-smoldering Opera Populaire. Messieurs Firman and Andre stood before it, Firman speaking in harsh undertones to the leader of the fire brigade and Andre just staring at the remaining flames, as if he were mesmerized by them. Meg debated a moment, and then went towards Andre. He was the more good-natured of the two managers and she was willing to bet that he would know where her mother was. If not, she would seek out Reyer, who was having his arm bandaged in an ambulance wagon.

She went and tugged at Andre's coat-sleeve, after stooping to smudge her face a little with some soot. No need for stupid questions. "Monsieur Andre? Have you seen my mother? Have you seen Madame Giry?" She asked, her voice trembling just a little. _What a superb actress you are, Meg Giry_, she thought, _you know she got out. No one in this world is more capable than Mother._

Andre started, and then looked at her. What an appealing little urchin she was! Those big blue eyes filled with unshed tears, moved him to speak. "She was just with Reyer. I think she has gone to look for you, mam'selle. I'll go find her for you, shall I, Miss Meg?"  
Meg breathed a not so false sigh of relief. There had been one thought in the back of her mind that her mother had gone back into the burning Opera to try and find her. "Yes, please, Monsieur. Please do."

"Well child, just stay here, and don't wander off again. Your mother would have my head if you did." And off Andre went, leaving Meg alone, silhouetted in the fading light of the fire. Soon enough, her mother appeared alongside the manager, breaking into a run when she saw Meg, wet and soot-spattered.

"_Ma chere_! I thought you were trapped underneath the Opera. I told you to not to go down there. Do you _ever_ listen?" The harsh words were belied by the sparkle of tears in the older Giry's eyes. Meg was pulled into her mother's arms, disregarding soot, damp and any other number of things that might have led her mother to suspicion. The fact that her mother had not voiced any of these things flashed through Meg's head.

"Where is Christine?"  
"The Vicomte has taken her away. She will be at his townhouse until they can be married… as quickly as possible, the Vicomte said."

"And the Phantom?" Meg said, before she could bite her tongue. Madame Giry's eyes glimmered and the tears overflowed.

"No one knows. He was not there when the gendarmes entered his home. I suspect he escaped… or he died."

"_Maman_… I need you to come with me. A friend needs our help."

"What help can we give, Marguerite? We have lost everything! Look at the Opera House- it will not be possible to save it. Who could we save?"

"Please, come with me, _Maman_. He promised to wait, but he won't wait long."  
"He? Meg Giry, you are being mysterious!"  
"No more so than you, _Maman_. Come." Meg led her mother to where the Phantom stood in the shadows. He drew back until he saw that it was the Giry women.

"My God, Erik!" Madame Giry exclaimed.

"Erik- is that your name?" Meg could have bitten her tongue for sounding so childish. After everything that had happened, of course she would go and say the stupidest thing possible. Or maybe one of the stupidest things… what would have been worse was if she had exclaimed that he had a name at all.

"Yes, little Meg. The infamous Phantom has a name."

"I… I didn't mean it like that! I just… I didn't know what it was… Christine never told me…" She trailed off, horrified at her thoughtless rambling. The part of his face that she could see went from rueful amusement to swiftly tamped anger to smoldering pain in a matter of seconds.

"She could not tell you because she never knew it. She never asked." He said, so quietly that Meg had to strain to hear it. And then wonder of wonders, her mother knelt and embraced him!

"My poor boy. My poor lost boy. I should have done better by you. It is my fault it has all come to this." Her mother murmured into his hair as she cradled the Phantom- Erik- in her arms as if he were no more than the little boy she still saw him as. Meg shifted from one foot to the other, the light of the Opera fire playing over her worried features as the hour was chimed out from the nearby Madeleine church.

"_Maman_? What are we going to do? It's three in the morning. Where will we stay?" She finally broke the silence, after letting the others cry. "I think that they've gotten the fire out… Shall I go and find one of the managers, to see what we're to do… the girls in the ballet as well? Let's see… at least twenty members of the corps de ballet, the four principle dancers who also quarter in the ballet dormitories. The singers are better off, most have their own flats. I have no idea how many stagehands are actually living at the Opera… I think the rough estimate of people to find space for is at the very least a hundred; probably closer to a hundred and fifty. Where in the world will we find anyplace to put up a hundred and fifty people?" Meg took to figuring all this, and then gasped out laughing, "I should hate to be a general! Too bad the backdrops and other canvases were probably destroyed in the fire… The sets for _Il Muto_ and _Hannibal_ would make a bloody damn great tent city, wouldn't they?"

"Marguerite, don't curse." Her mother said sharply, and then shook her head. "You are the most exasperating child I have ever known, bar one." And so saying, she glanced at Erik, the erstwhile Phantom of the Opera. "I have already talked to the managers. They will find someplace for the Opera people to stay for the night. Although what shall we do with you, Erik?"

"Wrap his head and his hands with bandages and say that he was burned in the fire." She said to her mother and turned to the Phantom… Erik, "And you ought to speak as though you got a chestfull of smoke trying to get out. Your coat was ruined when you wrapped it about your head and hands to protect you from the flames, but it caught fire and burnt you. You applied to the compassionate Mademoiselle Giry, who tenderly dressed your wounds. As a rich theatre-goer, you would be thrilled to provide this handsome young lady and her fine mother with a place to stay for the night out of your own pocket. I do imagine you have money tucked away somewhere." Meg stopped, having run out of breath.

"You assume rightly. I've about five thousand with me. That should do for two hotel rooms tonight. I can get more from the bank first thing tomorrow."

"Excellent. Maman, you might want to go to the managers and inform them of our plans. Wait, no… damn. I've no bandages- get some bandages from whomever you can get them from. I'll wait here with… with Erik." She looked up at him and smiled. "We just might make it through the night after all."

"Are you certain you're not Athena, crushing all in her wake with her cleverness and her confidence in her own wisdom?"

"Athena… the goddess of wisdom." Meg flushed under the streetlamp's light. "I wouldn't dare. Cleverness is wisdom playing hooky. I'm clever, but I will let Mother be the one who is wise."

"Then who are you, Meg Giry?"

"When I figure that out, you will be the first informed." She replied, relieved enough to be saucy with the Opera Ghost. "Everything will turn out all right in the end, won't it? Maman loves to teach, and dancing is the only thing she knows."  
"What of you, Meg Giry? Dancing is the only thing you know as well." He said softly.

"I know that I can't dance forever, and I don't have the patience for teaching that my mother does. I want to travel the world. See the pyramids and the Sphinx, the City of the Violet Crown and the Seven Hills of Rome… I want to look for gold in California and ride an elephant! I suppose that all sounds foolish. I'd be content with the Sphinx and with seeing Athens and Rome. There is a steamboat from Marseilles to Cairo, you know. Take the train from Paris to Marseilles and the then steamer to Cairo. Then over the bridge to Giza! Did you know that there is an opera house in Cairo? I'm talking too much again, I know. I'll stop now."

"You needn't stop; it's pleasant, having someone actually talking to me. I don't think anyone has ever actually done that before, so unselfconsciously. Go on, about what you would do once you got to traveling, Miss Meg Giry."

"Oh I don't know. I would want to go into the Great Pyramid of Cheops. They say it is hot and dusty and filled with bats, but wouldn't it be marvelous to stand in a chamber made by man so many centuries ago? I've read the Pyramids pre-date Christ by over _three_ _thousand_ years! I've only ever lived in Paris, in the Opera- wouldn't it be nice to be someplace else… any place else, by comparison. The head of the Service des Antiquities is Monsieur Mariette, he was recently at the Opera, didn't you know? He wrote the original story of _Aida_, that Signor Verdi turned into an opera."

"So that is why you're so fascinated with Egypt, is it, Little Meg. _Aida_. It's a lovely story, and Verdi isn't quite as talentless as other composers- Meyerbeer for example. Egypt it is then. But we would have to buy you a hat, Little Meg. With your hair and skin in that scorching sun, you'd burn red as a tomato." He smiled his rare smile and ruffled her red locks. And so they spent the rest of that night, building pyramids in the air and exploring the dusty tombs of pharaohs in their minds.

Author's Note:

Auguste Mariette really did write the original plot for the opera that Giuseppe Verdi transformed into the now famous _Aida._ This opera was set to premiere at the Khedivial Opera House in Cairo in 1871, but Mariette, who helped design the costumes and set pieces for the premiere, was trapped in Paris due to the Franco-Prussian war. (Yes I know I'm fudging my dates a little, but I tend to prefer the 1880's timeline, not to mention the fashions of that decade as opposed to the ones of the 1870's.) So I made an executive decision for bustles rather than crinoline hoops.

There it is... I haven't updated for a while, either with this or with my other Phantom fic, All Through The Night due to a bevy of reasons, some of them good some of them bad, but in the end, I think it was just a case of writer's block. Please read and review, because if you've gotten this far, don't you think I need the encouragement?  
K.S.


	4. The Wisest Hour

I know, it has been an eternity since I last updated… well, pretty much anything. _Mea maxima culpa!_ But, since I'm also polishing up the next chapter of "All Through The Night" I shall give you the next chapter in "For What It's Worth" The title, as well as the quote containing it comes from, you guessed it, L.M. Montgomery. Enjoy.

Warmest regards, K.S.

**_The Wisest Hour_**

Soft as the wind and pale as the moon… that is how I think of him. He stands bathed in the cold light of the early spring stars, his back to me, looking out the window. The wig he wears gleams darkly in the moonlight, and he is still… so still. The statues in the Louvre could be no more motionless than he is, standing in the library of this oh so elegant townhouse right in the middle of Paris' most fashionable residential district.

"How now, spirit, whither wander you?" He asks in that exquisite voice of his, and I recognize the words of Puck from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. "Faerie fae, do you come to dance me into dreams? For dreams alone I live now." So whimsical, and so sad! But still his voice was light.

"No Endymion are you, and I no Selene."

"If not Selene, then whom?" This was the game we played, trying to find the right goddess or nymph to suit me."  
"I should be Daphne, but I _lead_ the chase- I should be Athena, but wit is not wisdom, who then am I? It is for others to name me, for I think I shall end by having many names, and none that I will answer to."

"Clever Meg, always a ready answer. Come now, sprite, why are you up at this hour? It's gone three in the morning."  
"The wisest and most accursed hour of the night. Three in the morning is the hour of revelation, of inspiration…" My eyes strayed to the piano that rested snug in one corner of the room- it was littered with half-scribbled musical notation. He inclined his head towards the writing desk where tales of silver gilt and spun glass rested in equal if not greater disarray.

"What a pair we are! Go write down whatever it is that seized your brain, so we can have a civilized conversation. You won't be capable of anything but nonsense till then." How well he knew me! And so, I went to the elegant little writing desk that served as my own, dipped my pen into the inkwell, and began to spin my story. The idea had come to me over time, and I finally had gotten the idea down. A young goddess, of the Greek variety, goes on a quest to recover something she had lost: her name. I don't know how long I wrote, but false dawn approached when I finally stretched and looked up. My fingers were smudged with ink, and my nose itched terribly, so I went to the small basin in the corner, and washed my hands with strong soap to get the black stains off my fingertips. Looking at the clock, sighing, I went back to my bed, and fell asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillows.

My dreams were disjointed things, and I awoke feeling supremely frustrated, as if I had just danced my heart out only to be supplanted by one of the managers' tarts. My fingernails had bitten into the soft skin of my palm, leaving crescent moon impressions. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, and dressed in what I liked to think of as my 'grown-up' outfit. No bows and ribbon bedecked frocks for me, for I should look silly in them- there were some gowns I had seen in the windows of couteriers that were trimmed with entire stuffed birds! How ridiculous! No, this was quite simple- a lawn shirtwaist, with a high neck and a bit of lace at the cuffs of the sleeves, and a black skirt with only a very modest bustle. I tamed my red hair into a long braid, and deciding that I didn't want to bother with the hairpins, left it to fall down my back. A quick glance in the mirror told me, that though I would never be beautiful, I was quite presentable.

A quick croissant and a bit of chocolate, and I was back in the library, at my little escritoire, scribbling away at the story which had caught hold of my mind. My young goddess wandered the world, searching for one who could tell her what her name. I was still in there, weaving my story, when Christine came to call.

I know, it's short, but keep heart, I'm still working on it. Please review, I seriously need something to brighten up my day

K.S.


	5. The Visitor

The Visitor

Christine Daae left her calling card with the servant at the house that Madame Giry and Meg had given as their new address. It seemed more than just comfortable. In fact, it was just as stylish as the Vicomte's Paris residence. Yet- this house was not a show-piece designed to overwhelm the unlucky visitor with its grandeur- no, there was a coziness to it, from the parquet floors to the tall windows that let in the light.

Perhaps, because of this obvious affluence, she might be able to have her way after all. If Raoul could see how respectable it was, he'd relent. After all, Madame Giry was her guardian, and Meg her best friend.

The housekeeper, a round, cheery woman knocked on a door, and at a soft answer, opened it. Meg was sitting at a delicate writing desk, scribbling away, her red hair hanging down her back in a fat braid- though her clothing seemed grown-up enough, if severe enough for Madame Giry herself. Oddly though it suited her, the black and white, and Christine felt suddenly self-conscious in her new gown, with it's profusion of lace and ruffles.

"Miss Daae, for you, Miss Meg." The older woman said, "Shall I bring some tea?"

"Yes, thank you, Alais. Christine! How are you? I haven't seen you for three weeks!"

"Yes, well… Everything's been a bit mad. But I see you've settled in here nicely. However did you manage a townhouse like this?" Wonder was in Christine's voice, and Meg knew she had to tread very carefully.

"The gentleman who has taken us is the first of Maman's 'strays' as he calls himself. Maman practically raised him, and she only a teenager herself. Monsieur Erik became an architect."

"You call him Monsieur Erik? Why is that?"  
"It sounds strange calling him by his last name- Monsieur de Lassy. And I cannot bring myself to call him merely Erik- it's too disrespectful after all he's done for us."  
"You are a strange creature, Meg. Are you perhaps a little in love with him?"  
Meg paused at that question. Was she? Then she laughed, "No, indeed, familiarity breeds contempt, as they say. I'm afraid Maman is out, and she will be most unhappy at having missed you."

"I've talked with Madame Giry. Raoul asked her to come to his townhouse two days ago."

"What? Why didn't she tell me?"  
"Because she wanted me to come and tell you myself. It's about the wedding."

"What about it?"  
Christine took a deep breath and began her piece, "It is in two weeks. Raoul has asked me to have his cousin, Gabrielle, stand up as my bridesmaid. Monsieur Firman will be escorting me down the aisle."

"But… we agreed… We would be one another's bridesmaid, and that Monsieur Reyer would escort us down the aisle. How could you change your mind? How could you?" Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Raoul thinks it would be better to cut ties with the fact that I was in the corps de ballet. Having one of the Opera managers will acknowledge the fact that I was, for a time, a Prima Donna; and to have his cousin act as an attendant will show that I am quite accepted into Society. I'm sorry, Meg, truly I am. But what else was I to do?"  
"You could have stood up to him- but you've never done that ever before, so why start now? I think perhaps that it is time you leave…" Meg trailed off as the door opened.

"Meg, where did you leave that book by Belzoni? I can't seem to find it anywhere…" Erik had strode into the room, but trailed off when he saw the guest.

"Christine?" His voice became breathless, and it trembled. Almost immediately, he fell to his knees at her feet, and kissed the hem of her gown.

"Stay away from me!" Christine backed away, then looked to Meg, "You lied to me! Meg, how could you?"

Meg closed her eyes, unable to think of anything but Erik, kneeling on the floor, looking as if he'd had his heart ripped from him yet again. Her face was as white as her shirtwaist and her small hand twisted in her skirt.

"Get up. How can you… She betrayed you- played her part in their plot to capture you… She exposed you for all the world to see and _still_ you kneel at her feet?" Her voice, which had started at barely a whisper, had rose, and she felt strangely elated, at finally having the opportunity to say exactly what she thought.

"And you," she whirled on Christine, "Do you have any idea of what he's been through? What his life has been like? You were the one bright star to him. You threw all that devotion, all that love, away for a candy-box face and a title! And not just his- you've abandoned _all_ your friends for… for… Worth gowns and a barouche!"

She drew herself up, and she resembled her mother very much then, for she seemed as inexorable as the virgin Athena. "Oh, to the devil with you both!" And she swept away, the black skirt swirling about her ankles.

She raced up the stairs and into her room, pausing only to lock the door. She half-hoped, half-feared that someone would come to her door. But no one came. No one came and that only made her cry harder. In her fury, she pulled apart the braid, and savagely brushed her hair so that it was a mane of fiery red, cascading down her back. Everything had seemed so bright this morning- when she had played the game with him- trying to find a name to her nameless goddess. Trying to find a name that suited her. And she had just discovered the perfect name, and had been about to tell Erik what it was… when Christine came. And now it was ruined, everything was ruined, all because Christine had returned to find the elusive erstwhile Phantom of the Opera ensconced with her foster mother and her best friend.

_Note: I'm stepping this up a bit, I know. And yes, I wanted to highlight the differences between Christine, who is easily led, and Meg, who is stubborn to a fault. But this weak Christine is not the one featured in my other stories- that other one has more spine and a lot more kindness. And yes, I am still working on my other story in progress- "All Through The Night"... it's just giving me more trouble than this one._

Please review!  
K.S.


	6. The Fury

This scene is where we get Meg in all her glory- temper, eloquence (I hope), and tears. And there are plenty of references to classical mythology, too! (And yes, the Muse of Tragedy _does_ carry a mask… some things are just too cool for coincidence!)

Please review!  
K.S.

The Fury

Meg cried herself out and had fallen asleep flung diagonally across her bed. She didn't stir when the locked door opened, and Erik slipped the slim band of steel back into his pocket. He had thought to run up after Meg, but when he heard the things being thrown about he had stopped himself. Meg had _very_ good aim. Now he was glad that he had. It looked as if there had been a small, localized hurricane in her room.

Christine had fled almost as soon as Meg had departed, but he'd managed to say one thing more to her before she raced away. "If you tell your Vicomte of this, you will condemn not only myself, but Madame Giry and Meg as well. For their sake, do not." She said nothing, and he pressed, his beautiful voice nearly breaking. "Do you want me to get back on my knees?"

Christine had swallowed convulsively, "No, I won't tell." and with that, she'd escaped. He had then made up his mind to go to Meg and try and explain what had happened. But he'd heard the crashings and a variety of _thumps_ and _thuds_ overhead and deemed that discretion may indeed be the better part of valor, at the moment in any case.

But now he saw her, draped limply on her bed, black skirt crumpled, shapely ankles revealed in white silk stockings. Almost unwillingly, he saw how her hair was now loose, and that it spilled across her pillows like a halo of fire, contrasting with the milky pallor of her skin.

"Meg." He said quietly. She didn't stir. "Meg," he said her name louder this time, and brought all the beauty of his voice to bear. Sitting down next to her on the bed, he brushed her hair from her face. Erik saw the flash of blue eyes, before they were screwed up tight again.

"Marguerite Giry." His voice held a note of command, and of warning, and so she sat up reluctantly, and pushed the hair away from her face. She looked at him, her nose a bit red, and her eyelashes still wet with tears.

"So who are you this time? Penelope, the ever-faithful? Or perhaps Eos, with your hair as red as the sun at dawn… How about one of the Muses- you have nine of them to choose from…"

"Oh go away! If I must be a Muse, why not then Melpomene, for she carries a tragic mask!" She scrambled off the bed and stood framed in the warm light from her window. "You asked me, once, why it was whenever you reached for happiness, the further it flew from your grasp. And I felt sorry for you- even after everything you'd done, you seemed like nothing so much as a lost little boy. And… and it tore my heart." Meg clasped her hands together beneath her heart, "In my infinite conceit, I thought that I'd taught you how to laugh. But just the sight of her reduces you, even now, to someone… someone I don't know. Really, I knew you were an emotional masochist, but you're carrying it a bit too far." At the last, she just let the bitterness take hold and it was out before she could control her tongue.

"You missed your calling, Mademoiselle- you could have joined Carlotta as a harpy." He said coldly and strode towards Meg, tall and forbidding. But, as Meg had said, 'familiarity breeds contempt'; and Little Giry was no coward, and she'd passed beyond anger.

"Better still, one of the Furies?" She shot back, and raised her hand, slapping his face with a vicious force. It knocked off the white mask, which fell to the floor between them. They both stared at it in shock for a moment, then Meg's eyes flew up to his face, and he reacted by putting his own hand up to cover the deformity.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…. I never meant to... I'm sorry." She whispered, sliding down the glass of the French doors, tears running down her ashen cheeks. He said nothing, just stared down at her. He bent to pick up the mask, and returned it to his face.

"I think, perhaps, we ought to let our tempers cool. The past few minutes have not reflected well on either of us." He said, his unearthly tenor sounding cold and tight.  
Meg raised her head, gulped down her tears and said, "Oh go to the Devil!" Those blue eyes radiated temper. She rose and went to her door. "Monsieur, if you please?" Holding it open for him.

"Very good, Mam'selle Meg. Keep practicing, and your mother will have some competition for that particular look of disdain. Perhaps you are an ice princess, not a Greek goddess."

She raised her chin, like a pugilist, but said not a word, just pointed out into the corridor. Once he was out, she slammed the door. A few minutes later, when she heard music pouring from the piano in the music room; she emerged quietly from her room. Up the stairs she went, till she reached the door to the widow's walk. Out she went, and saw the sun begin to sink over the western horizon, and the sky grow dark in the east- stars twinkling to life. She had missed luncheon, and was probably missing supper, but she didn't care. She didn't need the prosaic mutton and rosemary, though she could smell it, even up here. Then the wind changed, coming from the Seine, blowing away the clouds and setting her free. Free from temper and free from the unending drama of the Phantom of the Opera, free from everything but the twinkling lights of Paris, and the shimmering stars above.

A/N: Like Indiana Jones, I'm making this up as I go. But please, feel kindly for my heroine, for she is young, and is in some ways descended from _Anne of Green Gables_, another red-head; as well as other ladies of literature. Must I beg for reviews? (Gets down on her knees, smiles winningly) Please?

K.S.


	7. The Ice Maiden

I know, this is a terribly short chapter, but it's sort of bridging a gap between two parts. The poem that Meg writes in her… well confused state- is one of my own, entitled "Vestal". On related matter, hasn't seemed to be able to note separations between verses in poems within stories... grrr.  
As always, please review, it always makes my day!  
Warmest regards,

K.S.

The Ice-Maiden

In the end, it _was_ the tempting smell of mutton that lured Meg from her perch. The anger had burned out- although it had taken a little longer than usual to do so, and she made her way down to where supper was set. Her mother was lying in wait for her, and immediately pounced, like a tabby on a particularly careless mouse.

"What on earth have you been saying to that man? He is in the foulest mood I've seen him in since the whole debacle with Carlotta."

Meg glared back at her mother, her blue eyes like chips of ice, "He has just as much to do with it as I. More, in fact." She paused, "Don't scold me, maman. I've had a particularly awful day. Christine came."

"Ah. And she told you."  
"Not only that, but we were interrupted by Erik."  
"Merciful God in Heaven. What happened?" Madame Giry crossed herself and then leaned forward to hear her daughter's tale.

"I think the phrase, 'a disaster beyond your imagination' sums it up quite neatly. Frankly, I was the one who lost my temper- with the pair of them. It was afterwards when he and I argued. Maman, he knelt at her feet and looked up at her as if she were… I don't know… Venus or Aphrodite or… It made me angry. After everything that happened, everything she did- he still thinks her an angel."

"Why does it make you angry, _ma petite_?" Madame Giry thought she knew, but she wanted to hear her daughter explain. Some things children must find out for themselves.

"I don't know… perhaps it's because she hurt him. She hurt him so terribly. And yet he sets himself up for more every time. Oh, the things I said!" The last was nearly a wail.

"What did you say, my dear one? I'm assuming you called him names. You usually do."

"I dare say 'emotional masochist' was the nastiest thing I was able to think of, Maman. He called me worse names, but oh, I was cruel and spiteful and I pretty well said everything I ever thought." Meg inhaled a shuddering breath. "And well, I don't see how he can forgive me the things I said."  
"His temper tends to flare up and then blow over – like a summer storm. You eat your supper and by tomorrow, he'll not be angry… not at you in any case." Madame Giry ran a hand over the bright hair of her daughter, fondly. "Maybe he'll even take up that game the two of you have been playing for months now."  
Meg, who had sat down and put some of the mutton and potatoes and other good things on her plate, turned in her seat to face her mother, "I don't think I'll play that game again, Maman. It was silly of me to begin it in the first place." And she turned back and began to eat. But it was automatic, she made no comment about the food as she usually did, and said nothing of it all being rather cold. When she finished, she went back to her desk in the library, laid out her little notebook and began to write.

She usually did not scribble her silver gilt fancies in verse, preferring to tell tales, but for some reason, the need to write poetry was very strong in her. The words tumbled from her pen, and formed into three verses… Over and over again, the words 'ice maiden', hissed in the most beautiful voice imaginable repeated in her head.

The stubborn streak in Marguerite Giry took those words to a heart that was inclined to be perhaps a bit too tender. Well, no more… let all the world know! If she must be an ice maiden, then by damn she _would_ be! A pale dancer all in icy white and frosty blue- heart as hard and intractable as diamonds.

The renovations to the Opera Populaire had already began, and they were saying that it would be ready to open for the next Season. Good, a goal, something to wrok towards. She would become the Prima Ballerina of the new Opera, and she would allow no admirers, allow no one to sing her praises. She would as like as faraway and unreachable as one of the statues on the roof. Ambition and Fame, those jealous sisters, alone would she chase now. And to think that she'd fancied herself more than half in love with him! A childish infatiuation… good riddance to it.

The ink was quite dry by the time she had decided her course. Not bothering to even look the verses over, she left them on the little secretaire and went to bed. Tomorrow would be long, for she'd let herself get soft and indulgent these past few weeks. No longer- she would speak to her mother in the morning, and begin a regime to be prepared to audition to be the principal dancer in the company of the Opera- by the time the building was restored, she would be ready.

Meg Giry went to bed, though steely convictions do not assure a comfortable rest. She did not know; that, at the wisest and most accursed hour of the night, another member of the household stumbled across the poem that had given her new direction.

_Freeze me up in marble_

_My heart can take no more_

_Turn me into some chill Vestal_

_To forget what my heart is for._

_I tire of being lonely_

_But if I must be alone_

_I wish to be an ice maiden_

_Carved from the coldest stone._

_Free me from my wretched passion_

_It has brought me low_

_For my love, he does not love me_

_And he must never know_.

Neither did she know that it caused his heart to ache terribly, nor, in her coldy glorious dreams, did she hear a voice standing over her bed, whispering, "What have I done? What _have_ I done?"

_A/N:_

_There it is. I hope you enjoyed this tale thus far. I've enjoyed writing it. Please, please review! It really makes an author's day if you read a story and liked it, and let that author know that her hard work has not gone unnoticed!  
Thanks again_

_K.S._


	8. Lavender Silk

**Six Months Later:**

The Opera was glittering; the performance of _Giselle_ had opened to rave reviews and rare crowds. Most of those reviews were for La Giry, the dancer who brought the tragic ballet back to life for the first time in nearly fifteen years. She was called 'the flame-haired nymph', and 'the most lyrical dancer since the legendary Marie Taglioni', in _L'Epoque_; and 'the greatest _Giselle_ since Carlotta Grisi.' in _Le Matin_... then she was dissected for her eccentric habits. That red-headed maiden would not keep company, would send gifts back to the givers, and forward all flowers to the dormitories of the _corps de ballet_.

Patrons and suitors alike found themselves rebuffed at the portal to her dressing room, she disdained all save the little ballet rats who she welcomed with open arms, for she had, not so long ago, been one of their number. Only once did she relax her rule- for the American General from whom she begged great tales of his Civil War. La Giry, along with her mother and her mother's cousin, the exciting new composer Erik de Lassy, received the one-legged old roué in their elegant salon one afternoon, and the General was said to be more taken by the Prima Ballerina's _maman_ than by the charms of La Giry herself.

Meg laughed herself silly over all the idiotic insinuations. But she clipped all the newspaper press out and saved each story. Monsieur le General Sickles was an entertaining old fellow, and he had been quite taken with Maman… despite the fact that he had a wife not much older than Meg herself. The General had called her a "great little sport." and then proceeded to tell the tales of his war, which was what he'd been invited for. The old gentleman was a rare storyteller, and his French excellent, though on occasion he would curse in English.

But he'd gone back to his own country, but Meg counted herself lucky to have met such an interesting old fellow. So now, she had performed _Giselle_… it would run for another month. Then there would be an opera, with their new soprano leading the pack. Searching through the old Romantic ballets, she'd come across _La Sylphide_- and presented it to the new managers. They had enthusiastically responded to that ballet, and the new owner had concurred.

She had washed the heavy greasepaint from her face, and had changed from her frothy confection of a costume into a white lawn dress. There was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of it opening and quickly shutting.

Meg called out, irritated, "I don't care if you're the last Bourbon Prince, I do not receive visitors."

"The most lyrical ballerina since the legendary Taglioni. Oh, Meg, I'm so proud of you!" The voice was female, and Meg stood slowly to face her one-time best friend.

"Madame la Vicomtesse." She said, quietly, one hand resting on the dressing table. Christine, the new Vicomtesse de Chagny, jerked back, surprised.

"I suppose I deserved that."

"Yes, you did. I didn't even get to sit with my mother at your wedding… I had to sit with the rest of the rabble. Firman and Andre's _tarts_ were seated further up than I was!"

"I didn't know until afterwards… and then you were nowhere to be seen."  
"I left early."

"Meg, I'm so sorry." Christine's big, limpid eyes shimmered with tears, and Meg only thought about how often those eyes filled.

"I go by Marguerite, now. Meg is too childish for a _Prima_ _Ballerina_. Although it does bring with it some pitfalls."

"Pitfalls? What sort of pitfalls?"

"They are usually in the form of daisies. Scores of idiots who think they are witty when they give me bouquets with notes saying, "Marguerites for Marguerite." I solved it by sending all the flowers to the dormitories of the _corps de ballet_. The little rats love them, and they'll enjoy them more than I do."  
"And you send back gifts from suitors and patrons and you absolutely refuse to be seen in the _Foyer de la Danse_ after a performance. You're setting yourself up to be the most eccentric character in the Opera…"Christine laughed, but then trailed off as if suddenly frightened. Meg let the uncomfortable silence linger… she'd gotten good at that in the last few months. Someone eventually would break the silence, because silence betrays.

"Is he… is he still in Paris?" Christine broke the silence and Meg arched an eyebrow.

"Do you want to know, or is it your Vicomte who wants to know?"

"Raoul broke all ties with the Opera. I had to wait till he was off on a business trip to Calais to come see you."  
"You need to grow a spine, Christine." Meg said, tying her long red hair back with a white ribbon. She always wore white and pale blue now. Other colors just didn't seem to hold any appeal.

"That's a terrible thing to say to someone!" Christine sounded shocked.

"It's a terrible thing to have to say to someone. Especially if it needs to be said." Meg replied mildly.

"Do you truly hate me?"

"I don't hate you, Christine… I only wish that you…" Meg slapped her hand on the dressing-table, unable to put her feelings into words. Finally she strode over to where Christine stood, and took her hands, peering into her face, "I wish that you had the courage to tell your Vicomte to go to the Devil when he vexes you. I wish that you could face… him… without shaking in your shoes. I wish that you weren't feeling like you were doing wrong when you come back to the Opera. He's not some bogeyman, waiting for you in every shadowed corner! Don't you dare think that you're the only one who suffered in this! He's suffered every day of his life- and if cutting off you, you who are the sister of my soul- will protect him, then by God I shall do it!" The ice had broken and Meg stood, tears running down her face, "Please, Christine, if you would excuse me, I… I need to wash my face." She took several deep breaths as she sank down onto her stool.

"You're more than half in love with him, aren't you, Meg?" Christine said, very gently, putting a hand to the bright hair.

"How am I to know? I've never had- nor ever really wanted a lover… before. I always thought they'd just get in the way 'Lovers whine and kisses pall…' and all that." She paused, took a breath, and told her shameful little secret. "There was one fellow… right after you made your debut. He gave me a carnation and then made it very clear that I was a stepping stone to the divine _La Daae_. I made a fool of myself for a yellow carnation!"

"Oh, Meg… I never knew." Christine knelt in front of her friend, taking Meg's small, pale hands in her own.

"You were off having an adventure- one I couldn't share in. And when you came back, you were upset. I suppose it doesn't matter much, in the whole scheme of things… but that bastard sent you a dozen pink roses when he only gave me a yellow carnation. Oh, I was cross-eyed jealous! Not a single rose… no adventures, only days and days at the _barre_ and worn-out pointe shoes were my merits of that night."

"You always wanted to have grand adventures. I was a sad little bird in my cage, moping about while you were biding your time till you got out. There were times when I thought that you'd have made much less of a muddle of things than I did."

"I'd have had all of them trembling in their cravats, and enjoying every minute of it." Meg laughed, a trembly, half sob of a laugh, but a laugh it was. "Oh, we must be very young and foolish! But it's nice to dream- of far away places, and grand adventures. Maybe one day I shall have my adventure- a little old lady in lavender silk sailing down the River Nile with an entourage of Opera tenors attending to my every wish- shooting crocodiles with champagne corks!" Her mood had changed, lightening fast, and she was laughing at her own folly.

Christine laughed, "Please, come to visit me, Meg. I am drowning in a sea of Society- something I never anticipated."

"I shall come to see you, then. But we must not speak of men… except the idiots who suitable only to laugh at." Meg promised.

"I've missed you so!" Christine kissed Meg on the cheek and sailed out. The red-haired girl just sat at her dressing table and looked into the great mirror that hung on the wall like a penance.

"A little old lady in lavender silk? With my hair? What on earth was I thinking?" Then she laughed, and swept up her little green capelet, slung it coquettishly over her shoulders, and blew a kiss to her reflection in the glass, "Meg-in-the-Mirror," She said almost merrily, "I feel like I've been handed the moon and I'm not exactly certain what to do with it!"

"String it on a chain and wear it as a necklace." The voice was male and quietly amused. Meg turned to watch the mirror… her mirror, sliding back, revealing a tall man in a black cloak, a fedora tilted rakishly over his forehead. "Come along, Marguerite. Your mother is waiting." He said, mock severely, as he strode over to the door and took her arm-  
_To Be Continued_.

A/N: Yes, I know- this is a big jump, but it is an important one! A few historical notes: Marie Taglioni and Carlotta Grisi were two of the most well-known and important of the Romantic dancers who inspired the 'cult of the ballerina'- Taglioni originated the role in _La Sylphide_ and Grisi was the original _Giselle_.  
General Daniel Sickles did indeed visit Paris in the latter part of the 19th century, and was well known as a _bon vivant_ and ladies man; and told whoever would listen his war stories.(Though I fudged a bit with the timelines shhh, don't tell.) Kudos to those of you who caught the two Dorothy Parker references. In the Victorian _Language of Flowers; _a yellow carnation meant rejection or disdain, and pink roses meant 'perfect happiness"- and as most of us know, a thornless rose meant "love at first sight' and a red rose simply conveyed 'Love'. Hope you enjoyed the history lesson.

Warmest regards,  
K.S.


	9. One Perfect Rose

Romance is very much in the air- though Meg is very much aware of how she has fallen, Erik is quickly discovering that his feelings for the 'red-haired nymph' are rather more than just the brotherly affections he thought he felt. The title is rather shamelessly taken from the Dorothy Parker poem of the same name... Oh, and take heart of grace- there will be more…  
Now, for a shameless plug of my other story: _All Through The Night_- which is a traditional Erik/Christine tale. Read and review it if you like _For What It's Worth_. Pretty Please?  
Well Enjoy this next chapter;

K.S.

_**One Perfect Rose**_

"So, you are now the 'the most lyrical ballerina since the Taglioni'? A fanciful description, Marguerite." He said conversationally, as he steered her back through the room to the mirror.

"Do you mean to take me through the looking glass? I'm wearing white lawn! It'll get filthy!" She exclaimed.

"I thought you wanted an adventure, Meg," he said, letting that incomparable tenor wrap around her like smoke. "But I suppose little girls do not like to get their smocks dirty." He stood behind her and whispered into her ear.  
"Oh, to the Devil with you," she snapped her favorite invective, and pushed him aside and entered the secret passage, "Happy, now?"  
"Not really, but you'll do. Lead on, oh flame-haired nymph!" He chuckled richly.

"If I ever find out what idiot wrote that, I'll have his guts for my garters… on stage!"

"So you don't care to be a Titian-haired seductress?" Only he could make the ridiculous words sound… well _not_ ridiculous.

"Oh! I hadn't seen _that_ one… which paper?" She asked, bemused.

"I can't recall- some yellow rag. Now then, what am I forgetting?" He patted his pockets theatrically. "Ah yes. I recall that you were bemoaning the lack of something, Mistress Meg." And with the flourish of a conjuror, he presented her with a rose. A white rose.

"One perfect rose- white, so as not to clash with your hair." He tweaked a Titian curl that had escaped the ribbon.

"It's lovely. But you ought to have sent it to the dormitories with the rest of the flowers." She said, taking it anyway. Then she jerked her hand with a gasp. One thorn had remained on the stem, and she dropped the flower as she sucked the blood from her thumb.

He caught the rose before it hit the floor, and stripped away the offending prickle.

Then he trimmed the stem and tucked the flower behind her ear. Then he cocked his head critically, walking entirely around her, tweaking the angle only after a thorough inspection, "There, that's better. It becomes you."

"Does it indeed? Oh, what's the use arguing with you! You always do exactly as you please." She laughed and he smiled.

"It's good to hear you laugh. You were well on your way to becoming a cynic, my girl."

"How anyone could grow up in the Opera and not be a cynic is beyond me." She replied tartly. "But take heart, I'm only a cynic in theory. In practice, I'm quite the Romantic."

"Are you indeed? How so?"  
"Haven't you seen the papers? I'm the mysterious and enchanting ballerina." She patted her auburn curls and pirouetted once, and then curtseyed deeply before him.  
"You're a fair way to being conceited if you start believing your own press, my dear." He replied, tweaking her nose as he took her hand and pulled her from her deep bow.  
"Never, that's where the cynicism part comes in handy." She tilted her head, almost coquettishly, laughing at his expression. "Now, admit it, I've bested you in this game of words."

"You always do, _ma amie_." He said, quietly. She smiled sunnily and tucked her arm in his. They walked quietly down the secret passage.

"You know, I never did ask you where we are going." Meg said as they rounded a corner.

"Just to look at something. Then I shall take you home."

"You're being mysterious again. What is going on?"  
"I need to see to some things."

"You're going back to the… the… lair!" She could think of no better word for the dwelling that lay hidden beneath the Opera House. "Are you going to leave Maman and I? You are going back there to stay, aren't you? To become the Phantom of the Opera again!" Her voice rose, a banshee shriek of distress.

"Meg! Calm down. Why would I take up my role as Phantom once more when I now own the Opera? Be reasonable, _ma amie_. We merely go to gather some supplies. Shall I tell you a secret?"

"Oh do, I love secrets. But only if it's a pleasant secret. There are too many unpleasant secrets in this world."

"There is my Romantic ballerina. Yes, it is a pleasant secret, for once." Again, he tugged at a curl of her hair, what had become a habit he couldn't seem to break. He was fascinated by the many moods of Meg's auburn hair - now, in the light of the gas lamp- no more flaming torches for Erik!- it was gilded and looked more a rose gold than carrot red. "I have developed a formula for a new mask- made out of a very thin material not unlike rubber. It will simulate natural flesh… I should be able to walk about without anyone turning around… or summoning the _Sûreté_." He chuckled.

Meg stopped dead in her tracks, "But that means… Why did you only do this now? To think, you could have... Christine… Oh my stupid mouth!" She clapped a hand over that offending appendage. He gently took her wrist, pulling her hand from her aghast lips.

"Hush, _ma amie._ It's all right, truly it is. I have discovered something, Meg. And I never thought it would be possible."

"What is that?"  
"That I could actually have someone that I could call _friend_. Not your mother- because she has mothered me as much as she has any of her ballerinas- including you, I rather suspect. But I was never able to speak as freely with her as I can with you. And you're not afraid of me- you've seen me in a temper and you matched it rather spectacularly. Thank you, Marguerite Giry- for giving me a gift I'd never thought to know." He put his hand to his heart and bowed deeply before her.  
Meg stood before him, unable to think, "I… I… don't know what to say."

"Thank you, is, I believe, the most acceptable phrase in reply, Meg. Though in this case, _de rien_ might work as well."

"But it is not nothing! The way you put it… it sounds like everything!"

"Perhaps, ma amie, it is. Come, we'll take the boat. You'll get to pretend you're the heroine of one of those Gothic novels you're always reading." He winked, and tilted the hat so that she could see his wink, then they both began to laugh.

"Do you know, no one has ever taken me on a boat ride? But then, before tonight, no one has ever given me a rose before. Let alone a perfect rose. A night for firsts, don't you agree, Erik?" She remarked, trailing one pale hand through the water as he poled quietly across the underground lake. He'd tossed off the hat and she played with the brim of it.

Just the casual use of his name by another human being was cause enough to celebrate in his mind- she hadn't done that in six long months, and he'd felt the chill of her withdrawal. It occurred to him that he had begun to care a great deal for this little red-headed imp. But it wasn't love- no… It could never match the grand passion that he had felt for Christine Daae- that great and tragic depth of love. No, this was warmer, sweeter than that fire- which had chilled as much as it had burned. And the sweetness of it brought a sad smile to his face as Meg looked in unabashed wonder at all the trappings he had surrounded himself with as the Phantom of the Opera. And if he appreciated the slim white neck, the ever so slightly pointed ears, the limpid blue eyes, the slow blossom of a wondering smile; what of it? Meg was a handsome girl- not classically beautiful- but so much more interesting. She was an accomplished woman- not only musically inclined, but had a voracious mind that he constantly applauded- and a wicked wit he delighted in. No, it was not love- but it was the satisfaction found in having discovered the perfect companion.  
Meg was awed by the lair- even after months and months and months of disuse, there was still a strange beauty to it. She looked at the many delicate contraptions that Erik had manufactured, and then marveled at the scores of music that had somehow remained. When she felt the heat of his gaze on her, she turned to look back. He had a strange expression on the side of his face that she could see, but his eyes were hooded and she could not tell what they conveyed. Oh, despite the mask- despite the deformity and everything that it had caused- it was a dear face. How could she have thought that she'd fallen out of love with him? Or even imagined that she hadn't been in the first place! Just one perfect rose and the place she had thought locked tight had been burst open, warming the block of ice she'd pretended her heart had become. The room seemed to be bathed in the glow of a thousand candles, and he was all darkness- from his cloak to his suit to his hair- all except for the mask and suddenly his eyes- which were alive with an emotion she couldn't name. But the gray-green depths of them hypnotized her, and she took a step forward towards him almost without realizing it.

"Come, Meg. I have gotten what I needed." His voice broke the spell, and he held a hand out to her.

"How do you do that?" She muttered as he helped her back into the gondola.

"Do what?" He asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Look at a girl as if you can read what is in her very soul. As if you can tell what secrets we hold near to our hearts and make use of it? How did you know… how did you know that of all the things in the world, I wanted one rose, given not because I am the _Prima Ballerina_ of the Opera Populaire, but because I am Meg Giry, hopeless romantic?"

"Because, ma amie, I know you… we all want to be admired and loved. But for some- it's the love of the nameless, faceless crowd, chanting a silly name. For others, it's love given and returned that we crave. You loath that nameless ass because he was one of that crowd- adoring an impossible dream of a girl rather than the one living and breathing and hoping before him."

"But _you_ loved Christine- that same impossible dream of a girl. But it's different, isn't it? Because you loved her long before she was that goddess on a pedestal that she seemed to everyone else." Meg nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe the difference is that she never set out to be put on a pedestal and worshipped from afar. _I did_… Precisely because I didn't want to be faceless, abandoned, forgotten in the end. I got exactly what I wanted… only it turned out that it wasn't what I wanted at all. You must think me a very perverse creature." She said sadly, looking up at him through a generous fringe of lashes.

"Of course you are. But so are we all. So are we all, my Meg."

"Am I? Your Meg?" She stopped, and he turned to face her.

"Of course you are. Until a knight in shining armor on a white horse rescues you from my castle- you are my Meg."

She snorted and inelegant laugh, "As if any moron wearing a tin can could be _your_ equal- I'd eat that dreadful hat I saw in a shop window the other day- the one trimmed with a whole dead bird and about half a ton of silk flowers!" She threaded her arm through his and surprised him by resting her head on his shoulder for a moment, "I'll be no man's mistress. And I'll not marry a man who will think to rule me. Shall we grow old together, Erik- you composing your music and designing your buildings; while I wind wool and order the servants about while writing penny-dreadful novels?"  
"Was that some outlandish form of a proposal? My girl, you ought to know that sort of thing isn't done! I should be the one proposing something to you… indecent or otherwise" He affected shock, then a leer, but there was a genuine question in his voice. Was there some possibility that she might be serious?

"Wouldn't that shock the world? No, it wasn't a proposal, indecent or otherwise. Take me home, please. I'm very tired all of a sudden." Her quick-witted denial hid an equally quickly hidden hurt. She yawned and he suddenly caught her up in his arms, making her laugh. "Very romantic. If only I were the proper heroine for this story… I would appreciate it properly…" she began to drift off, and by the time he had gotten her to her dressing room, she was so completely asleep he just lay her on the cot that rested in one corner of the room, and stood watch over her for the rest of the night.

**Author's Note**:  
_I hope you like this. I've been toying with a few ideas as to how this story is going to go in the next few parts- and this went from being a filler chapter to one of my longer offerings- filled with some revelations… or in some cases, the brink of revelation.  
I hope you enjoyed it.  
Please review and read my other stuff… I'm trying to figure out which of my fics is better written!  
Warmest regards_

_K.S._


	10. La Belle Dame Sans Merci

_La Belle Dame Sans Merci_

Meg awoke in her dressing room, grumbling over the fact that she'd slept in her clothes. He was gone, once again had left no sign that he'd ever been there, only the faint fragrance of the white rose, which had been put into a teacup full of water. It was chilly in the room, and she noticed that it was not her elegant little capelet that covered her. It was a full-length cloak, heavy black velvet on one side, gold-shot cream jacquard on the other… and it smelled like _him_.

She sighed, and got up. The chill was palpable in the room, and she groaned at it, slipping back under the volumous cloak. It was still warm from the heat of her body, and she ran a finger over the velvet. She would not be performing tonight, at least not in the traditional sense… the Bal Masque. It was New Year's Eve.

Her mother wanted her to wear white, _again_, for the masked ball. But Meg had the secret dress all ready, and she would not do without it this year. It was red- the red of sunsets and battlefields, with black accents like nothing so much as a starless night. The gown was made to look like something from the time of England's Elizabeth. It had slim-fitted sleeves, puffed at the shoulder; a bell-shaped crimson skirt that opened over an underskirt of black brocade. The ruff at her neck and the lace at her wrists were also black, which contrasted with the claret red of the main gown. Meg even knew what she would call herself in this viciously beautiful confection: _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_. And who would think that the Romantic ballerina Meg Giry would wear something so daring and intimidating. Something that plainly conveyed power- no wonder Erik had appeared the year before as Red Death! She had garnet and black crystal ornaments for her hair and ears, fingers; she would be bedecked with jewels!

But, looking at the charming little clock that rested on her dressing table, she sighed at the time- it was nearly ten in the morning!She went over to the armoire and shifted day dresses and costumes to find the frock at the very back. It glimmered in the low gaslight, half-buried though it was. Meg smiled. Erik had asked her what she was going to be costumed as… and she hadn't told him. She only commented that he ought to find something that looked like it was from the late sixteenth century- and come as either Philip of Spain or some Renaissance gallant. Though it would make him laugh, to come to the masquerade as her persona's _bete noir_. It make her smile impishly just thinking about it.

She rang for her maid, and when the silly creature gaped at her in her rumpled lawn dress, she snapped, "It was late and I decided not to bother going home. Just get me a bath filled and then we must put my hair in curlers… I want this Bal Masque to be perfect. Help me out of this dress, please?" The maid unhooked the row of tiny buttons to the back of her dress, and Meg threw it over her head, breathing deeply- glad to be out of it. She hadn't worn a corset the night before, thank goodness; so she drew a dressing gown over her chemise and directed the maid, "Never mind the dress, it will need to be laundered. See about the bath, please, and send someone in to stoke the fire- this room is freezing!"

The maid scurried out, and Meg seated herself at her dressing table. She ran a brush through her hair and waited for the young man who came and fired up the gas stove that stood in the corner, heating the room pleasantly. The maid returned and drew Meg's bath, scenting it with violet bath salts. Meg sank gratefully into the hot water, and let the maid wash her hair.

"You've such pretty hair, Mam'selle! It's like silk." The maid commented, "Wish my hair was like that."  
"My friend always wanted hair like mine. I don't know why, it's this horrid red, and hers was the loveliest brunette shade. C'est la vie, eh?" Meg commented, then leaned forward to let the maid pour clean water over her head, rinsing her hair.

The rest of the day dragged on, and after her bath, and after the incredible amount of time it took her hair to dry, Meg went about a few errands, dined with her mother and Erik, and had him drive her back to the Opera to get ready,

"I don't want anyone seeing my costume until it's time. But I guarantee this, dear heart, you'll know me when you see me." She said, smiling her favorite smile- the one Erik said made her look like a wicked faery.

"Of course I shall know you, cherie. No one else in Paris has that hair the color of sunlit amber."

"Very unkind of you, to make mention of my hair, and it's abominable color."

"I adore your hair, it looks like spun silk when you wear it down."

"Well, Erik, it won't be down tonight, it'll be up and dressed with marvelous jewels."

"I expect nothing less, Marguerite."

And she had laughed and wished him luck with his costume, as he had wished her. Then merrily she went into the Opera and once back in her dressing room, she transformed from plain Meg Giry to the mysterious and scintillating _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_.

Meg took a deep breath, and the slipped out of the shadowy corner to stand at the head of the _grand escalier_. Her mask covered her face to over her cheeks and nose, and was painted pure white, with black whorls and gold spangles at the top edge, garnet-colored crystals scattered amongst the glitter. Her red hair was piled on her head and a magnificent Marie Stuart style headpiece sparkled darkly amongst the auburn curls. She handed her card to the major-domo, who swallowed hard, but announced her to the frozen crowd of merry-makers.

"_La Belle Dame Sans Merci_!" He called out as she paused a moment at the top of the staircase and looked out over the assembled guests. A faint smile graced her painted lips as she found the figure she had been searching for. Marguerite descended the steps lightly, as befitted a ballerina; one might almost say she glided.

The assemblage parted before her, as the Red Sea parted for Moses, until she came upon the tall man in somber black. He bowed, and she swept him a curtsy as only a prima ballerina could.

"'Fain I would climb, yet dear I to fall.'" He quoted, prompting a silvery laugh.

"'If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all.'" She replied, and took his arm. There was an almost universal exhale, as if the building itself had taken a relieved breath. Then the musicians began a waltz, and as _La Belle Dame_ and her black-clad gallant swung into the dance, other couples joined in. Though none exhibited that couple's superlative grace.

"I am impressed, mademoiselle. You very nearly caused a riot. What are you supposed to be, anyway."

"A variation on Red Death. I am La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Or Gloriana, which is nearly as delicious a title."

" 'I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful- a faery's child

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.'"

"That's lovely, but it's not from Chartier. Who wrote it?" Meg's own eyes shone, struck by the elegant verse. Erik laughed and whirled her about.

"An Englishman. His name was Keats, I believe. But he used Chartier's title. That verse reminded me of you. You've wild eyes, you know. You may have all of Paris fooled, Marguerite, but not me." He brushed a finger over the tip of her nose, "You're a lovely elfin thing strayed into the city, but you're a wild creature at heart, Meg Giry. That's what makes you so effective a dancer: you seem too perfect, too otherworldly to be real, with your wild eyes promising the moon and stars, and your Korë smile fit to drive a man mad. Add to that your real grace, you could kill a man with that look you flash over your shoulder, _cherie_."

Meg looked at him a moment, "I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. _Do_ I drive men mad? What a pleasant thought."

"What would Paris do, if it should learn that it's darling is so savage? Oh flame-haired nymph, take pity on this poor mortal!" He immediately knelt upon one knee and grasped her hands dramatically.

"Get up, you're making a scene."

"Why shouldn't I make a scene, oh Gloriana? You made one earlier."  
"Why not? I'll tell you why: because you're you and I'm me, and… and if you don't get up, I'm going to walk away and change my costume to something completely different, and you'll be left looking like a fool in the middle of the masked ball!" She snapped, the game suddenly not funny any more. Meg had nearly blurted out something very foolish indeed. But she was relieved when he stood and began the waltz again without a single skip in the beat.

And then, without a moment's warning, Erik's mask was pulled from his face. And an angry and above all, familiar voice rang out, "Call the _Sûreté_! He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, roughly pushed Meg out of the way, his sword pointed at the one-time Phantom. Then he looked at the man he had unmasked.

There was no deformity on his face. The skin on the right side was as smooth as that on the left, the nose just as perfectly symmetrical, if just a bit hawkish. The green eyes were sparkling with rage, and the well-formed lips were curled in a snarl. Erik backed away from the Victomte's sword, and knelt at Meg's side, where she had fallen.

"Have you looked your fill, Monsieur. Or should I charge you for the pleasure?" He inquired acidly, "If my prima ballerina has been hurt by your stupidity, I can assure you, you will pay." He gave Meg his arm, which she took gratefully. She swayed a moment, and the crowd gasped. Erik solved the problem by swinging her- glittering, crystal-encrusted skirts and all, into his arms.

"You idiot! Don't you know that he's Erik de Lassy, the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac? And the new owner of the Opera Populaire? And if anything has happened to interfere with my dancing, you'll not only have to deal with him, you'll have to deal with _my mother_!" Meg hissed poisonously.

"Heaven and all the saints forbid. Reyer! I am taking Mademoiselle Giry to her dressing room. Find me a doctor and have him and Madame Giry meet me there!" Erik fought a moment with Meg's gown, "And have her maid there, to get the girl out of this damn dress!"

He strode the entire way to her dressing room, the party-goers, like all crowds, following along to see what happened next. He opened the door with his foot, and he deposited Meg on her chaise and looked about for the maid, who wasn't there.

"Figure out how to get out of that contraption or I will cut it off you, Marguerite." He growled, stalking about the room.  
"I'm not ruining my costume just because some titled fool put you in a foul mood. We'll wait for my maid. And I want everyone out of here, right now!" She spat back at him.

"You try my patience, mademoiselle." He snarled at Meg, who stood, or rather sat, her ground coolly.

"As you try mine. I'm no milksop to be intimidated, so desist your looming. Go back to the party- drink copious amounts of champagne, flirt with married women, and make the _corps de ballet_ fall in love with you." She snapped, entirely put out.

A tall, thin man with an incredible mustache elbowed his way into the room, followed closely by Madame Giry, who was gowned in a slim green dress from the 1st Empire.

"Marguerite! What in the world has happened?"  
"I was knocked over, _Maman_. Is that the doctor there with you?" Meg answered, dreading any comment about the red gown.

"I am afraid I am not, Mademoiselle. I am Inspector Ledoux, of the _Sûreté_. I was summoned by the Vicomte de Chagny, to answer a charge that he had discovered the whereabouts of the infamous Phantom of the Opera."

"Do you see any deformed musical geniuses in this room, Monsieur? Look closely, perhaps he has painted himself to match my woodwork!" Meg had finally lost her temper. "The Vicomte de Chagny sees the Phantom in every shadow, behind every column or statue, and he rushes in, sword at the ready."

"Indeed, Mademoiselle Giry. Though if I may say, he rather has reason to do so."

"You refer to the incident of not quite a year ago? If you recall, Monsieur Inspector, I was there that night. I saw the Phantom, when Christine Daae unmasked him. And I can assure you, Monsieur de Lassy looks _nothing_ like him. Oh, I'll grant that he has the same build and coloring, but he's lacking… something. Why don't you look at him and tell me what it is."

Caught off-guard by the ferocity of her anger, the inspector did look at Erik, taking in the hooded eyes, the mobile mouth and the hawkish nose. He bowed, and said to them all.

"I cannot imagine why the Vicomte would think that the Baron is the Phantom in disguise. I think it safe to say that the Phantom of the Opera is long gone from here. Monsieur le Baron. Madame Giry. Mademoiselle Giry, I look forward to seeing you grace the stage again soon. Your Giselle was breathtaking." The inspector clicked his heels and exited the room, moving aside for the Opera doctor, a small, round man, his peacock mask askew and made ridiculous by the fact that his fussy little pince-nez perched on his masked nose.

The Inspector paused, and took one look at the little tableau in the dressing room: the man in black looming over the chaise longue with his arms folded, glowering at the woman in red, who glared back at him. Then she winced as the doctor did something to her ankle, and the man's expression changed from angry to concerned in a heartbeat.

"So that's the way the wind blows." He murmured, looking for the Vicomte de Chagny. He found the young man, attended to by his pretty wife. She looked up, and the Inspector remembered that she had been not only a singer, but a dancer at the Opera Populaire- and the object of the Phantom's obsession. Well, that sealed it- Monsieur de Lassy had seemed quite protective and attentive to Mademoiselle Giry; and she of him.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, I think that we must put this affair of the Phantom behind us. It does Madame no good for you to be always looking behind you, searching the shadows. It is a new year, a good time to make a resolution- to live without fear. I am certain that with Madame, your charming wife, you can do this thing. The Phantom of the Opera is nothing more than a memory. Consign him to the past." Inspector Ledoux bowed to Christine, the Vicomtess de Chagny, and made his way from the Opera.

"Do you really think he's gone? I was so certain, Christine. I was so certain that man was him." Raoul raked a hand through his hair, and looked down at his wife.

"Dearest, I think the Inspector is right. He is long gone. My dear, foolish Raoul. No more tilting at windmills, and searching the night for monsters?"

"Yes, Christine, I promise." He kissed her hand, and smiled down at her.

"And now, you _must_ go and write an apology to Meg. Knocking her down like that! I have never been so appalled in my life! Yes, a nicely written apology, and two dozen roses…pink, I think. Raoul, did you hear a word I just said?"

"Yes, dearest. An apology, and two dozen pink roses. Or should I make it three?"  
"Three, yes, I think that might convince Meg _not_ to kill you. "

Madame Giry and Louise, Meg's maid, had helped her out of the Elizabethan gown, and into a pale green wrapper dress. The doctor had put ice on her ankle, and had advised her not to dance for a week, although she should be able to walk by morning.The edict over dancing was just to be on the safe side, and she was well enough to complain loudly over the terrible rudeness of the Vicomte de Chagny.

But once Doctor Broderie was out of the room, she sent Louise on her way as well. Meg knew what was coming, at least from her mother.

"Well? I have a feeling I know what you're going to say, Mother. It's about the Dress, isn't it?"

"Marguerite, your performance this evening more than made up for your sartorial choices. Though I must say, you looked very intimidating, berating the Vicomte in that manner. I don't think anyone could have done that in white tulle."  
"I would have said exactly the same things in the same tone and manner if I'd been wearing a bathing costume, Mother."

"You were magnificent, Meg. Nemesis could not make someone quake in their boots so."

"I was so frightened." She whispered. "He could have run you through before taking the mask off. He could have scratched at your face… he could have…" Meg trailed off, lips trembling.

"I think it's time we go home, ladies." Erik said, bundling himself up in a cloak, draping a cloak about Meg, then picking her up and wrapping her tightly. Madame had wrapped herself up, and the three made their way to their waiting carriage through the back halls that saw few merry-makers. The drive to the house was made in silence. Once in the house, Meg was soon settled into bed.

"How did you do it?" She asked him, as he set her down on her bed. "This new mask. It looks… amazing. You could go out during the day and no one would turn around." She reached up to hesitantly touch his face. "It _feels_ real. How did you do it? And why not before now?"

"Always so full of questions. It's taken me years to find the right compound that creates a mask that simulates flesh. And last year… I wanted her to love me for myself. She saw my face before I was finished with it. She didn't understand; she didn't want to. And I was so lost that I couldn't see it." He paused, almost uncertain. "It is a terrible thing, to never have love. Don't shut it from your life again, Marguerite."

"I won't. But I meant what I said. I'll be no man's mistress or plaything. Be he king or peasant, I'll not. I have no intention of becoming a pretty china doll- sitting on a shelf till my lord and master wants me to decorate his arm or warm his bed. It would kill me."

"You've too much spirit for that, Meg. You're a creature of fire, of passion. I must write a ballet for you, _cherie_."

"Yes, you do that."

_Author's Note:_

_I know that it has been a long time since I've updated For What It's Worth.Mea maxima culpa. But I hope that this is a long enough chapter to satisfy those who have been waiting.The title is taken from poems by the medieval French poet Chartier, as well as the more famous one by Keats, who is quoted in the text. Please, please, please review, and check out my other Phantom fics, "Fairy Tales","All Through The Night", and "Not the Only Way Out"_

_Warmest Regards,_

_K.S._


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